By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Unfortunately, marijuana is still illegal, you know, despite the recent National Academy of Sciences' Institute of Medicine study commissioned by Drug Czar Barry McCaffrey that concluded (to his eternal chagrin) the use of medicinal marijuana may be beneficial and disputed that silly DARE theory about it being a "gateway" drug. Smirk, chortle, snort. Were we not averse to breaking the law, we're pretty sure we could have gotten the guys seated directly in front of us to share the wealth. Or the girls directly next to the Weekly's music editor, Rich Kane, who was our designated driver-heh, heh, heh. Or the couple one row back and five seats over. Or the guy in the beer line. Our point is, people, don't go to an Everlast/Black Crowes/ Lenny Kravitzconcert without a satchel of snacks. You will be hungry. Oh, yes, you will be hungry.
That such rampant lawbreaking was going on in Irvine Meadows Amphitheatrepleased us no end; it was like being back in New York City, where if you were not averse to illicit drug use, you could walk down the street smoking a joint, and if a cop saw you, he would ask, "Hey, you wanna put that out?" Or else he wouldn't!(We hear, though, that things are much changed under Rudy Giuliani; apparently der Kommisar is about as much fun as a roiling case of scabies, of which we had a nasty attack while living communally in Santa Barbara. Apparently, our little flophouse of a living room was responsible for infesting the entire city. We knew lots of people!)
Before we even got in the gate, of course, we got to brave the parking lot, which was filled like Lake Havasuwith frat boys listening to the Dave Matthews Band-except here, they were in Grand Cherokees instead of pontoon boats, and the scene was missing all the breasts and beer bongs and people drowning in their own vomit. Speaking of which, have you heard of Vile Bile Beer, in which some Romeo from the Jim Rose Circus Sideshowdrinks a gallon of brew and then pumps his own stomach into a bucket? It's true! So there wasn't any of that, but still, there was plenty of dope! No worries, bra!
We were just in time for Boston's Everlast, and for some reason, he sounded just like Tom Waits. We like Everlast because he uses 'f' instead of 'th,' like mouf, and we heard him on KROQ's Kevin & Bean Showtalkin' all kinds of smack about The Offspring, whom we also like, but still, it was funny. You don't get enough celebs talkin' smack about one another; they always claim everyone's so great to work with, but Everlast's one of those guys who apparently has no inner censor. We love that.
But we still don't know what "The Ends" are.
We wandered about and saw Cree Summeron a teeny little side stage in the snack area. Summer is one of those rad baby-doll sexpot singers who tears it up while feeling herself up and then whispers, "Thank you" as though she wasn't nothing but an itsy-bitsy kitten. We dug her, although her nose ring immediately reminded us of Lisa Bonet, who pioneered the whole piercing thing for an entire generation of Cosby Kids. And of course, Summer was on A Different Worldwith Bonet, and of course, Bonet was married to Kravitz and produced his albums, and of course, now Kravitz is producing Summer's. We're not positive that we really care, but we thought we should mention it.
Then we watched as a handsome, clean-cut boy futzed with his tongue ring so that giant spit bubbles formed like a baby with gas. It was disgusting.
The Black Crowes, with front man Chris Robinsondoing his patented funky rooster aerobics dance-whaddaya mean? Mick who? Jagger? Wha?-were enormously fun, and we all danced like strippers and shouted, "Rock & rooooooll!" including the reviewer from the Long Beach Press-Telegramand his girlfriend (okay, maybe they didn't dance like strippers, but they danced), and promoter celeb Jaime Muñoz, who was lit like a sailor on shore leave. The Crowes were kinda silly: there was a song called "HorseHead" that was soooo sincere, and Robinson was wearing a tank top that was all sparkly and glittery, like a 6-year-old girl's if little girls wore shirts that said "Pimp." It was only missing a unicorn. And then it rained, and we all got to feel very adventurous, standing there in the wet. It was like one of those Honolulurains: it opened up for a minute or five and then was clear again.
But then a bad thing happened: Kravitz came on, and instead of being the old, dirty hippy we knew and loved, he's now just another rock star in a $600 Shaft-y blaxploitation jacket. Très LA. And the crowd switched from strung-out bikers playing air guitar and loving NASCAR to an entire arena of grown-up sorority girls with perfect hair and really cute boyfriends and great shoes, and we had a whole class war right there in our heads and got really paranoid and sad! Directly in front of us, a Liv Tylerlook-alike made these incredible pouty faces at her beau while grinding into him and resting her hand-model paw balletically on his shoulder. Where did she learn that? We were beset by people who normally don't exist outside a movie screen, and we found it disturbing. But then Kravitz shouted, "We are gonna do some songs for ya!" and we shouted: "Yeaaaah! Do some songs!"Then we burned out and had to leave. While the funk is eternal, Kravitz's rote form of it was exhausting and joyless-though his chick drummer did have the rhythm-aw, yeah. But, you know, except for the headliner, it was the best concert we've ever been to.